


a hundred lifetimes

by hurricaneharmony



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Soulmate AU, reincarnation AU sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 10:16:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5536154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricaneharmony/pseuds/hurricaneharmony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s moments like this when she wonders if she’s loved him before. If maybe the comfort of his fingers slipping between hers is a memory from another lifetime. If maybe he always knows just what to say at just the right times because he’s said it before.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Maybe, they've loved each other in another life.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <i>A soulmate AU. Contains a little Childhood-Best-Friend AU, Cabin Boy Killian/Princess Emma AU, a bit of Daddy-Killian AU, and more.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	a hundred lifetimes

**Author's Note:**

> This is my CSSS gift to the lovely @loveforcaptainswan on Tumblr. Merry Christmas, Liz! I hope you enjoy this conglomeration of AUs and feels and fluff and more angst than I expected. <3

_“And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.”_

It’s moments like this, with his hook pressing at the small of her back and fingers rubbing between her shoulder blades, with her nose nudging against the hollow of his throat and her socked toes pressing against his boots as the door swings closed behind him— it’s moments like this when she wonders if she’s loved him before. If maybe the comfort of his fingers slipping between hers is a memory from another lifetime. If maybe he always knows just what to say at just the right times because he’s said it before. 

“I’m home,” he whispers into her hair. “You can stop missing me now.” She just squeezes him tighter, pressing up on her toes to tuck her chin over his shoulder. 

“But I lost you,” she murmurs, voice muffled against his jacket. 

“And you found me,” he counters. 

“I guess I just don’t like letting you out of my sight anymore.” 

He slides his hand up the back of her neck to anchor in her hair. “Sweetheart, I’ve only been gone for an hour.” 

She’d feel silly if it wasn’t for the way he tightens his hold on her waist and mumbles the words into a kiss against the side of her neck, if it wasn’t for the way the name _sweetheart_ makes her feel warm and soft and sedated. If it wasn’t for the way she can feel the two halves of his heart beating steadily in their chests when they’re close like this. 

She pulls back just enough to watch him, her arms looped around his neck and his other arm sliding back down around her waist to hold her close while she leans back. She reaches up to cup her palms against his stubble, her pinky fingers hooking under his jawbone and fingertips rubbing at the soft spot just behind his ears, smiling when he turns to press a kiss to her palm. The streetlight through the window catches in the blue of his eyes, and he’s smiling so softly that she can’t help but curl back into him, pressing her nose into the _v_ of his shirt as his chin settles atop her head. 

“I’m here, love.” He whispers. “Always, always.” 

\-- 

Maybe in one lifetime, they’ve always known each other. 

Ruby affectionately calls her Mother Goose, and sometimes August calls her a chicken– but Killian calls her Swan. It started in the fifth grade, after that day when they jumped off the swings at recess, and she landed with a mouthful of sand while he stood on two feet. 

“Graceful, aren’t you?” He’d said lightly, trying not to laugh as he tugged her to her feet. “Like your namesake.” 

He’d squeezed her hand and smiled so softly, and just like that– she knew she liked him. 

And so it goes—she pushes him on the swings, and he helps her with her math homework. She cuts his hair with safety scissors in the empty classroom when Neal makes fun of him for it. He sits in the passenger’s seat with a white-knuckled grip on the car door the day she gets her driver’s license, and he still manages to grimace a smile at her. 

They’re in the twelfth grade at the local fair, high above the town and its people. She swings her feet to rock the car, and he sighs. She squeezes his hand a little tighter. 

“Sorry,” she whispers, not _quite_ truly sorry to be stuck at the top of the Ferris wheel with their thighs brushing and his palm warm against hers. He turns to her then, mouth opening and closing and a blush settling on his cheeks. “What is it?” 

“I have a confession to make.” 

“Hm?” 

“Maybe I was never really afraid of Ferris wheels.” He shrugs, half a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I just liked holding your hand.” 

She snorts this choked little laugh, but she’s looking at him with her eyes so soft and knowing and familiar, and when her gaze flickers to his mouth, it’s too much to keep from kissing her anymore. 

She’s liked him as long as she’s known how to, she realizes. Maybe she’s loved him for longer. 

\-- 

They’re on his ship, a coil of rope under his head with Emma tucked against his chest as they lay on the deck. They’ve been in this position long enough that she can feel a bruise blossoming on her hipbone where it’s pressed into the hard wood, and his arm is asleep under her chest, but he can’t bear to suggest that they move to his bunk. It’s rare that they have time for moments as long as this, and he doesn’t want to break the spell. 

“This is nice,” she says. “Quiet moment.” 

He smiles, presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Aye, love. Quiet moment.” 

\-- 

“Shhh, you’ll wake the lad.” 

She’s twenty-three and stifling her laughter with the back of her hand as he nudges the hem of her shirt up with his nose, shifting lower on the bed and splaying his fingers across her stomach. 

“Ah, Swan, but don’t you like my artwork?” He lifts his hand and leaves behind ten green fingerprints from where Henry coloured him in. “According to the boy, green fingers are quite in vogue now.” 

This is what she gets for loving an artist. She knew that Henry would love the Magic Markers that Killian bought as his Christmas present, but she hadn’t anticipated just how much, or how much damage a five-year-old could cause with “washable” markers. He’d smeared brown marker into the carpet, drawn roses on the couch, wrote his name all over his spot at the kitchen table, and—Killian—oh god, Killian— 

He’s got cherry-red blush circles on his cheeks, and a nose the same shade of blue as his eyes, and a sloppy purple outline around his mouth, extending his smile like the Joker—but he’s still strangely handsome, even with a crooked Christmas tree on one arm and _“I <3 Emma”_ all over the other, even with his green fingertips and purple palms staining her stomach and thighs and sheets. She bites her lips against a laugh again, and he grins wider, crawling back up the bed and settling a hand on her cheek. 

“Don’t kiss me right now!” She squirms away, covering his mouth with her hand and laughing when he licks at her palm. “I don’t want your marker mouth!” 

He nudges closer, rubbing his nose against hers. “Magic Markers are non-toxic, darling,” he mumbles against her palm. “I see no reason not to kiss you.” His eyes are full of mirth, and she lets her hand slide away from his mouth to push his hair out of his eyes, and he takes the moment to duck down and press a quick kiss to her mouth. She makes a noise of protest, a squeal caught in her throat—when they hear Henry stirring in the other room. They freeze, his green fingers tightening on her arm, Emma cringing up at him with her twin blue nose and purple-smeared mouth, and it’s his turn to laugh now. He taps a finger over her lips, letting it drag a green line down her chin as she rolls her eyes and tries not to smile. 

She lets him kiss her in the shower after she scrubs her thumbs over his cheeks, watching the pink water run down the drain and turn a muddy brown as he starts rubbing the green off of his fingers. 

“Ah, so now you’ll have me?” He teases. “Now, but not with a purple mouth and blue nose and clown cheeks?” She sighs, smooths her thumbs over his beard. 

“You’re so good,” she whispers. “With Henry. So good to me.” She pulls herself up, using her hands on his face as leverage until her lips brush his. “You can have me anytime.” 

\-- 

Maybe, in some lifetimes, she’s pushed him away hard enough that he snapped. Maybe that’s why she can’t seem to let him go. 

“You have to let me go,” he croaks. “Let me die a hero.” 

She shakes her head. He’s the only person she’s ever loved who hasn’t left yet. The only person who’s stayed as long as he possibly could, and maybe she’s being selfish for wanting to keep him for longer than she can. Maybe it’s her need for his love that made her try so hard to save him, even more than her love for him— 

But god, she loves him. She loves the way he says her name. Loves the look in his eyes when he’s watching the ocean. Loves the way he runs his hand reverently across the rails of his ship and takes cues from the wind and reads her the same way. She loves the taste of his name on her lips and the way he holds her brother, pressing his lips to the baby’s hair, loves the way he waggles his eyebrows at Henry over fries, like they’re speaking some secret language right under her nose. 

She loves him, and she can’t lose him. She crumples over his body on the ground, her knees pressing into the mud under him and her hands covered in his blood. 

She loves him. She loves the way he loved her. She never thought he’d stop. 

\-- 

“I’ve been thinking,” she says one day over breakfast, “maybe we should… stop.” 

She catches him halfway through his sip of coffee, and he’s coughing it into the sleeve of the sweater she bought him last Christmas. The one that’s a little too tight at the shoulders so she can help him peel it off. The one she likes to wear when she’s working from home, with sweater paws cleaning the screen of her laptop, and he gets to press his lips to her shoulder where the neckline slips off. He opens his mouth, coughs, tries again, and all he can splutter out is– 

"Oh.” Then, smaller—“Why?” 

She doesn’t say anything, and he trips over his words to fill the silence. 

“We’ve got it pretty good.” He’s rushing. “The mortgage was paid last week. We’ve got steady jobs.” He looks at her. “We’re happy." 

She’s looking anywhere but at him. Blinking at the rug, scratching some dried milk off of the table with her fingernail, tracing the wood grain. She doesn’t say anything. 

He swallows. "Right?” 

She won’t tell him that he’s right. That the last year with him has been happier than she ever knew she could be. That she’s finally learned to relax in his arms at night and kiss him without needing a reason to, and she keeps finding reasons to anyways. Like, how he fills the coffee maker at night and sets it to automatically brew in the morning, so she can stumble out of bed and get her caffeine fix even if she’s slept in. Like, the fact that he makes unexpectedly good spaghetti sauce. Like, the soft look in his eyes every time she tries to tell him she loves him—and can’t. 

She won’t tell him that he’s right, because if she did, he’d kiss her again. He’d coax her to stay. He’d break her resolve with his fingers at the base of her skull and thumbs brushing at the corners of her eyes. She won’t tell him that she has to leave _because_ she’s happy, because he’s gotten under her skin, and if he leaves her, she won’t know how to heal. He’s always been the stronger one. 

He looks at her, all confusion and gentle curiosity and hurt. 

She doesn’t say anything, just slides the papers across the table towards him. 

\-- 

If they've loved each other for lifetimes, maybe that’s why it’s so easy to pick fights sometimes. They know each other better than they know themselves. He knows all of her weak spots, how to hit her where it hurts, and she knows just what to say to stun him into silence, then fury, until he’s slamming the door. 

They’re a disaster, sometimes. A hurricane tearing through their house, sending the salt and pepper shakers skittering across the kitchen table when a fist came down on it, slamming doors and cupboards, and once she ground her teeth so hard that she chipped a tooth. 

If they’ve loved each other for lifetimes, maybe that’s why it’s just as easy to fall back into each other after the fights. When she opens the door, he’s leaning against the doorframe. 

“I’m sorry,” she blurts, before he can beat her to it. “I didn’t mean any of it.” 

He steps in and sighs, bone weary. “But you did. And you were right about all of it.” 

She shakes her head. “That doesn’t make it okay.” 

He’s quiet for a long moment. “I’m sorry, too,” he says, finally. “I shouldn’t have said what I did, either.” 

She lets out a long breath and swallows her pride, stepping closer to him and letting her head fall to his shoulder with a dull thud even before her arms reach for him. 

“You’re whole,” he whispers. “You’re worth loving. You’re the best person I’ve ever known.” 

She feels her heart swoop in her chest, and burrows her nose further into his shirt. 

“Ditto”, she murmurs. He snorts. “No, really, though,” she says. “I love you. So much.” 

He breathes her in, all berry shampoo and vanilla perfume, and feels his heartbeat slow. He presses her closer. “I love you too, Emma.” 

\-- 

“Cabin boy,” she calls over her shoulder, “hurry up!” 

He’s in love with the Crown Princess of Misthaven, and _god,_ he’s a fool. He’s stumbling after her through a field of flowers, stomping through the long grass and trying to keep up with her as she hikes her skirts up and runs. It’s her sixteenth birthday, and he’s betraying the kingdom and his king and queen and his brother, the captain, as he chases her through the fields, her birthday ball and the castle fading into the distance. 

“May I be so bold as to ask where you’re taking me,” he huffs, “and _why?_ ” 

She spins on her heel and grins, sunlight catching in her hair, and her smile catching him breathless, and just like that—he’ll do anything she asks. “Just follow me,” she says. And he does. 

He follows her to the tall weeds near the riverbank, until she plops down in the grass and beckons for him to join her. 

“Might I ask why you’ve brought me here?” 

It’s only now that she starts to look flustered. “Because I… I’m the princess.” 

“I’m well aware.” 

She huffs. “No, it’s—it’s my parents. It’s--” She frowns, and he brushes his hand over hers before he can stop himself. 

“Go on,” he says softly. 

“It’s just… this is the only place my parents don’t know about. This is the only place I can get you alone.” She looks at him, and tries to smile, but she’s shaking. He feels his smile start from somewhere inside his chest and bloom outwards. He takes her hand, presses it to his lips. 

“Well, princess,” he says, “now that you’ve got me alone, what shall we do?” 

Her gaze flickers down at their hands, then back up to his eyes. She licks her lips, and his heart drops in his chest, and she kisses him. 

\-- 

She kisses him, and he feels the spark of her magic tingling against his lips and where her fingertips rest on his back. It’s warm and sleepy-soft and _home_ as he cards his fingers through her hair, nudges his nose into her cheek, and pulls back to press his lips to her shoulder where her sleep shirt slipped down. 

Home is the way his hair feels between her fingers, and the way his stubble nuzzles against her shoulder when he’s curled into her at night. The way he sighs and his eyes droop shut when she rubs her fingertips at the nape of his neck, where his hair goes baby-fine. It’s the feel of his breath against the back of her neck and his knees pressed against the backs of hers, and the way he tucks her closer when she shifts. 

This is it—this is their white picket fence life, with their king-size bed with fleece sheets, with the hole in the wall from where Killian slipped in his socks and plunged his hook into the plaster. This is their life, with Henry’s bedroom down the hall and a baby on the way. He smoothes his hand over her stomach, still flat and soft, and presses another kiss to her forehead. 

They trade _I love you_ s as easily as _good morning_. They line their hallways with picture frames—a boys’ night out with David, Robin, Henry, and Roland; Henry crooning at baby Neal; Killian on one knee and the ring already on Emma’s finger. 

He doesn’t remember the song they danced to at their wedding—something about patience and time and a thousand years—but he remembers the way he held her, with his hand and hook on her waist, smoothing over her flowy white skirt as she swayed with him, her head tucked against his shoulder. He remembers closing his eyes and thinking that this—this is what they’ve waited for. 

For a thousand years. For a hundred lifetimes. If they’ve ever loved before, surely it’s led them to this life. 


End file.
